


Lo and Behold

by stilitana



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Body Image, Canon Asexual Character, Canon Compliant, Developing Relationship, Domestic, Identity Issues, Love Confessions, M/M, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Recovery, Season/Series 04, Sharing a Bed, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-17
Updated: 2020-01-17
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:55:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22288240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stilitana/pseuds/stilitana
Summary: Jon and Martin make up for lost time, before lost time makes for them.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 45
Kudos: 409





	Lo and Behold

**Author's Note:**

> Hello dear reader, here is my humble offering to the between-seasons void, the obligatory safehouse story. This one has tenderness, forgiveness, healing, the end of the world, the most awkward love language ever committed to audio recording...what more need I say?
> 
> As always, comments and critique are very appreciated! Feel free to find me on tumblr @[stilitana](https://stilitana.tumblr.com/). Also, I am from the U.S., so apologies for any failures to approximate proper canon lingo and etc. I hope you enjoy, and thank you for reading, I love you.

> “A monster is not such a terrible thing to be. From the Latin root monstrum, a divine messenger of catastrophe, then adapted by the Old French to mean an animal of myriad origins: centaur, griffin, satyr. To be a monster is to be a hybrid signal, a lighthouse: both shelter and warning at once.”
> 
> — Ocean Vuong, from “A Letter To My Mother That She Will Never Read”

The safehouse was small, and dusty, and after the tumult and chaos of leaving the lonely, the unbroken silence of its unbreathing walls and the rolling hills all around seemed remote as the surface of the moon. A quiet, otherworldly dreamscape where the sky was powder blue, the air cool and fresh as clear water, and in the distance the hulking purple forms of mountains. 

For all its tranquility, Martin cannot mistake the place for the lonely – that endless foggy coastline where he had waded through water that never rose past his hips no matter how far he walked, where there was not another soul any more reachable than the pale sun, like a clouded white cataract, not even so much as the silver flash of a fish. For one thing, there was the town just down the road with its quiet, pleasant bustle, regular people going about their lives and minding their own business. For another, there was Jon. Jon who had, ever since taking his hand and leading him from the lonely, hovered around him like a watchful shadow, if not at his side then keeping watch from nearby. The presence is...a lot to get used to, after so long on his own. After getting so comfortable with being alone. And it might be funny, if it weren’t so sad, if he weren’t still a little numb and hollowed out, that after everything, it’s Jon who is clinging and vying for his attention, as if it were something of value. 

Jon set about taking the place apart once they got inside, Martin standing by idly, unsure of what to do with his hands, which felt like anvils sitting useless and heavy on the ends of his wrists. He opened all the cupboards, the cabinets and closets, even checked under the bed, and Martin does not comment on the way his hands tremble or his breath catches as though he is steeling himself to find something terrible, a body under the baseboards, a bloodstain. 

There is just one bedroom. This makes sense – Daisy had hardly needed to splurge on a safehouse suited to accommodating guests. Martin followed Jon inside, where Jon yanked open the closet and the medicine cabinet, eyes narrowed, and then he knelt down by the bed, wincing as he did so. 

“What exactly are you looking for?” Martin said. 

“Something. Anything.” 

“Do you...have a reason to think there’s anything to find?” 

“Not exactly? Oh. You mean do I—know there’s something here. No. I’m trying not to, you know,” Jon said, waving a hand in a vague gesture he probably thinks is more helpful than it is. “See things.” 

“Is that even possible for you?” 

Jon sat on the floor, hands in his lap, looking small and vulnerable and lost, and Martin can only distantly wonder at how the sight fails to make his heart clench. Instead it elicits only a deep-seated ache, like an old injury warning of rain. 

“I don’t really know,” Jon said. “But I think I should try.” 

“...Okay.” 

“Okay?” 

Martin shrugged, managed a halfhearted apologetic wince. “Sorry. Still feel a little...my head’s foggy.” 

“Of course. Of course, I’ll keep—you lie down, rest, I’ll, you know,” Jon said, reaching up to use the bed to help him stand up with a small, pained sound he can’t quite stifle. Martin held out his arm to offer a hand too late, and Jon took it once he was already half risen, which left them both standing awkwardly clasping hands. A year ago, Martin would have let Jon go as though burned, stammered apologies. A year ago Jon would have let him, face a mask of carefully maintained indifference which Martin would have interpreted as disgust. He knows now he has a hostile attribution bias—tends to read neutral expressions as negative. The seeds planted in his upbringing having grown up into a choking mass of weeds making him second guess the most harmless interaction. Now he just feels tired. And Jon looks lost. 

Jon cleared his throat and let go, looked down, gestured awkwardly at the bed. “Right,” he muttered. “Leave you to it, then.” 

“I don’t want to sleep, Jon. I didn’t mean...I’m fine. Or I will be fine. I just wanted you to know it’s not that something’s wrong, or—not that right now is wrong, just—my mind’s moving a little...slow, right now. It’s getting better, has gotten better, already, than it was, but...you know.” 

Jon nodded, and Martin isn’t sure he’ll ever get used to seeing how open and unguarded so many of Jon’s expressions are these days, as though all that has happened has flayed him of all his past masks and reservations, left him naked and exposed. There is real sympathy and understanding and acceptance in Jon’s expression and he doesn’t know how to handle that. Even if, when he’s being honest with himself, he has to admit it’s been there for a while now. Since Jon woke from the coma, at least. All the more reason he’d had to pull away. 

“I do know,” Jon murmured. “I mean I understand. Is there anything I can...do, for you?” 

Martin is momentarily breathless, as though something heavy has struck him in the chest and winded him. His head full of this dull, hollow ringing like an upturned bell. “You don’t...have to take care of me, Jon.” 

“What?” 

“I mean, you’ve done enough.” 

“Oh,” Jon said, voice careful and controlled. “I see.” He swallowed, and Martin watched him schooling his face into a wary mask of aloof detachment, the way he has seen Jon do so many times. It doesn’t quite work anymore. There’s a fragile, haunted quality to all Jon’s careful movements now which belies his composure and leaves him looking...breakable. Trauma will, Martin supposes, do that to you. The thought should horrify him. It will horrify him, as soon as he works up the courage to let all the emotions he’s been bottling up seep back out, but that’s...he’s not ready for that. 

“You’ve already done...more than enough.” 

Jon blinks at him, and for all the time they’ve spent together over the past—how long has it been, a day? — however long since they left the lonely, Martin thinks this is the first time Jon has really stared at him. With a fixed intensity, as though trying to know him by sight alone. And Jon...has changed. There’s no denying it. His eyes, his gaze, bears a faint pressure, a warning tingling feeling that raises the hair on the back of Martin’s neck, as though he is being stared at by something behind him as well. And he knows that Jon could push, could wield that gaze like a weapon and break him open. Knows that Jon could tear secrets out of him like pulling teeth. And he knows that he won’t. No, that’s not right—he believes that he won’t. Because, even through the lingering fog in his brain, he must admit to himself that the truth is this: he believes in Jon. Still. After everything. It’s still him. 

“Martin, this isn’t...this isn’t the lonely talking, is it?” 

“I think you know it’s more complicated than that, Jon. I don’t think it’s one or the other, anymore, I think...we probably shouldn’t try too hard, trying to determine what’s us and what’s... _it_. Slippery slope, and all.” 

“I...yes,” Jon murmured. “But that doesn’t...doesn’t that bother you?” 

Martin shrugged. He’d never been much of a shrugger, before, but now, well. He just doesn’t have it in him to trip over himself coming up with appropriately personable reactions. The memory of how he used to contort himself trying to appease everyone all the time alone exhausts him. “It could, if I let it. But honestly, I don’t want to. Bad things have always happened, things you have no control over, that change you and get under your skin, even before we had names for them and thought of them as entities. Maybe no one is ever themselves. Maybe we cling to a sense of solid identity because we’re attached to the illusion of permanence. I don’t...really care, which is true. I’ve just decided not to. We couldn’t change it before, can’t change it now, we can just...do what everyone else has always done, I guess. Our best.” He shrugged again, too emotionally drained to bother with embarrassment, the sort he always used to feel whenever he spoke his mind, especially to Jon, ready to be scoffed at and made to feel small and stupid. 

Instead, Jon lets out a shaky, shuddering breath. “I wish I could...you really think that?” 

“Yes.” 

“In the lonely, you said—” Jon broke off, wrapping one arm around his middle, his other hand coming up to press his knuckles to his mouth as he breathed through his nose, as though bodily holding himself together. His voice was muffled by his hand when he spoke. “I know you’re you, I know you’re still—Martin, I could—I knew it was you, that’s how I found you. And in the lonely, you said—you said—” 

Martin’s heart manages a little pang, not of panic but of exhausted sorrow at the thought of Jon saying back to him what he had confessed in the lonely. He doesn’t think he can stand it, not now, and wants to stop him, but can’t bring himself to speak. 

But Jon doesn’t mention the confession. Jon said, “You said I was me.” 

Martin blinked, thinking back. It’s not that he doesn’t remember saying I see you, Jon, because of course he does. Of course he does. It’s just that...it had seemed so obvious, so true and so right, that he’s unsure why Jon seems to be falling apart right in front of him over it. 

Jon heaves in another labored, shaky breath, still holding himself and staring at the edge of the bed. “Did you—did you mean that?” 

And Martin recalls leaving a tape with Basira, and a note, _Talk to him_. And he remembers a terrified young woman describing the monster in her nightmares, and recognizing it as Jon, his Jon, his Jon who gets that dear little crease between his brows when he’s thinking, who smiles like he’s taking a risk, who was _all eyes, and he was_ all _eyes_. 

Martin does not need to think about his reply. The truth is as always beyond reproach, beyond reason or doubt or evidence to the contrary, the truth is not fact but feeling and faith, the truth is simple and down in the marrow. He is so tired of overthinking, of second-guessing. “Yes,” he said. 

Jon made a small, pained sound, curling in on himself and pressing his hand hard against his mouth. “I didn’t realize—how badly I needed to hear—but I don’t think I deserve to,” he said, his voice catching and breaking on something that’s part sob and part the choked, somewhat unhinged beginnings of a laugh. His voice was ragged, strung-out, teetering over a great gulf of loss so vast Martin knows they could free-fall through forever. And Martin is tired of loss and free-fall and of isolation. And Jon is falling apart in front of him, tears brimming and leaking silently from his strange, familiar eyes, shoulders hunched and body curled as if to protect his core, and it is the simplest thing in the world to at last give in to his most natural impulse, and Martin reaches out slowly, giving Jon time to pull away. When he doesn’t, Martin takes Jon into his arms. 

He expects Jon to tense up, and for a second he does, as though braced for pain, and then he gives. He uncurls his arms from around himself and wraps them around Martin’s back, presses his face into Martin’s chest, sucking in a wet, shuddering breath, and Martin can feel it through the rise of his sharp shoulder bones, his ribs. He rests his head against Jon’s and holds him and it is so easy, and it hurts more than anything, and it doesn’t hurt at all. 

“I’m sorry,” Jon said, his voice nearly inaudible. “I shouldn’t be—you don’t have to—” 

He tensed as if to push away, but Martin holds him, gentle and firm as he can. “Please don’t go,” he whispered, and Jon obeys as though it is the greatest relief in the world to be told to stay, to be held in place, and he makes ugly, painful sounds as he tries to silence his crying. 

Martin rubs his hands down Jon’s back in a way he hopes is as soothing to Jon as it is to him, and Jon’s arms are wrapped tightly around his back as though he’s trying to make them into one being, and it’s almost too much, overwhelming in its closeness after all the loneliness, but Martin knows that healing often is painful, so he holds on and makes comforting nonsense shushing sounds, because he can’t quite cry and can’t think of anything more to say. 

He doesn’t know how long they spend like that. He’s lost his sense of time. But eventually Jon’s sobbing gives way to sniffling and Martin realizes that his shaking is no longer from the strain of trying to hold back tears but rather his body trembling with exhaustion. “We should sit down,” he mumbled. And then—“Do you want tea?” 

Jon laughed, once, choked and gutted. “Tea would be...divine.” 

“Tea would be divine,” Martin repeated, a faint smile tugging at his lips. 

Jon untangled himself from their embrace, eyes puffy and red, his face splotchy from crying and flushed. “It’s been a long day,” he said, and Martin is helpless to how endearing the defensive prickliness in Jon’s tone is. 

Jon followed him into the kitchen and sat on a stool, and Martin felt his gaze on him as he prepared their tea. They sat at the little dining table afterward and Martin couldn’t recall the last time he had felt this – companionable silence, the pleasure of letting his own thoughts wander while someone else did the same close by. He is aware, now and then, of Jon raising his eyes to stare at Martin. Jon had never been one for prolonged eye-contact, had even actively avoided it when he could, and the staring isn’t exactly new, but it is...different, now. For a while Martin ignores it, and then, experimentally, turns to meet Jon’s gaze. 

Jon blinked and looked down, cringing. Martin didn’t know what to make of that, exactly, and didn’t know how to broach the subject, so for now he let it go. 

“We should probably...there’s no food here,” Jon said. 

“Have to get to the store.” 

Jon hummed, staring at his mug. “We could both...go?” 

When he looked up tentatively, Martin was ready to meet him, smiling and relieved. 

In the little local grocery, Martin grabs a basket and Jon trails behind him through the brightly lit aisles, eyes darting this way and that, as though trying to see in all directions at once. “What’re you in the mood for?” Martin asks. He has decided he is not going to lose his mind at having found himself dumped abruptly from a nightmare into some parody of domestic bliss with Jonathan Sims, of all people, acting like a couple on vacation. He has decided that the way Jon keeps close to him, as though grounded by Martin’s presence, is not going to break his heart. He has decided to accept all things as they are, except for the things he cannot accept, which he is pretty sure they have earned a momentary respite from, hard-won though it was. 

“Oh. I don’t care,” Jon said, gazing listlessly at the shelves of food. “Up to you.” 

“You can have whatever you want, you know.” 

“I haven’t been shopping in a while.” 

“But you have been _eating_ , haven’t you?” 

“Er. There’s always something lying around in the breakroom,” Jon said, waving a hand dismissively. 

“Jon,” Martin sighed. 

“It just – it's not like it’s easy to do much cooking, in the institute, you know.” 

“Still. What about the others?” 

“The others? I’m sure that they – they went out, got takeaway, you know. Daisy and I sometimes, you know, we would – but truthfully, it just never...you know. They went out to lunch, and I’d read a statement.” 

“Oh.” 

“Yes.” 

“But you do still need to eat?” 

“I haven’t actually tried starving myself to find out.” 

“Let’s keep it that way, okay?” Martin said, not at all liking the detached, pondering way Jon said that, as though considering conducting such an experiment on himself. Just to know. 

Jon frowned. “I don’t...think I want that to be true. I don’t think I’d like that.” 

“Well, you don’t have to find out. I don’t really feel up to making anything too complicated right now, though.” 

“Oh, of course not.” 

In the end they bought basic things – soups, pasta, ready meals, anything that seemed easy enough to bother with. Jon hemmed and hawed over a selection of green apples for longer than Martin thought at all necessary, scrutinizing each one in turn with a sharp, critical eye. 

“You know minor blemishes don’t at all affect the quality of a piece of fruit, right? It’s a common misconception. It’s kind of a big issue, actually – a lot of food gets wasted because of picky shoppers. Like you. You’re pretty much feeding the extinction right now, probably.” 

Jon shoots him a look. “I know that. I just – don't like it when they’re. Spotty.” 

“You like the idea of an apple more than you like an apple itself, you mean.” 

“It’s just a preference, Martin, you don’t need to conduct a philosophical inquiry on the subject,” Jon says, so snotty and prim that it startles a laugh from Martin. A clumsy, genuine laugh, the kind he hasn’t managed in...months now. Jon’s eyes crinkle and he goes back to muttering over the apples. 

Back at the house, they eat their hastily cooked pasta while seated on the couch together and listening to the radio, just to fill the silence. There was no television, and Martin suspects the radio is for emergencies more than entertainment, or so he thinks. The food is bland but hot and filling and Martin finds himself...content. Comfortable, warm in a way he’d forgotten he could feel. Beside him, a whole cushion of space between them, Jon is pressed against the armrest, looking impossibly soft. They’d both showered and, as all of Jon’s belongings had been left at the institute, where they’d obviously decided not to return, Martin had given him a t-shirt and pair of flannel pajama bottoms. They were too big, the drawstrings knotted with a bow around Jon’s waist. He had the collar pulled up and was stroking the fabric seam against his lips and Martin _knows_ it doesn’t mean anything, knows it’s just a self-soothing tic and Jon’s mind is elsewhere and he definitely doesn’t realize he’s doing it, but. Still. 

He doesn’t want to ruin Jon’s apparent state of uncharacteristic calm, but he knows they have to talk about this eventually, and the sooner the better. So he says, not without reluctance, “Jon. How are you...feeling?” 

Jon drops the collar. “What? Fine. Why? Is something wrong?” 

“No, I just...well, we don’t exactly have any statements lying around, do we?” 

“Oh. No, but...but you know Basira said she’d try and send some, as soon as she’s able.” 

“But we don’t know when that might be.” 

Jon swallowed, carefully studying how the fibers of the couch shifted as he stroked his finger up and down along the armrest, brushing them forward and back. “No. We don’t.” 

“And how long can you go without having one?” 

Jon frowned down at the couch, face flushing. “I’ll be fine, Martin,” a familiar tone of curt dismissal in his voice. 

“That wasn’t an accusation, Jon. I’m not asking because I think you’re going to go on a rampage and start pulling them out of random passerby.” Jon winced, and Martin rushed to go on. “I know you stopped – that. I know it wasn’t easy, but you did it, and I know you’re going to keep doing it, because you want to, and that’s good. I’m asking for the same reason we just went shopping. Because we’re not trapped in that awful place anymore, and there’s no excuse not to take care of ourselves, and if you need statements to be well, then I just want us to be aware of that.” 

Jon’s voice is careful and controlled when he replied. “I was hoping...I had almost hoped it would just...go away. Once we left, I thought...maybe it will just stop.” 

“Jon...” 

“But...it seems I’m still beholden,” he said, his face twisting into a grimace. “I don’t think it’s going to stop,” he whispered. “I’m sorry.” 

“Why are you sorry?” 

“Because you shouldn’t have to – you should get to be free of all this. But you can’t be. Not as long as I’m here, being – this,” he said, gesturing vaguely at himself. 

“Jon. Please stop telling me what I want,” Martin said. “It’s been months of nothing but people telling me what they think I want to hear, and honestly, I’m sick of it. What I want isn’t just to get away from the institute, to leave every trace of this behind. What would that even mean for me, or any of us, at this point? It’s been years of this being our lives. We’ve all changed. I don’t know who I’d even be – none of us can just walk away. It’s not what I want.” 

“What do you want, then?” Jon said, desperate. 

“I want – what I always wanted, I guess. For us to...to try and be happy. I know, I know – nobody's happy all of the time, you can’t make somebody happy, Martin, god I know. But for us to try. To stop pretending that by being miserable, we’re somehow doing – penance, or something. As if us being miserable does anybody any good. Tim and Sasha, you think they’d be glad that we decide to punish ourselves for living, for the rest of our lives? What good does it do? I just want a chance. I just want...to try. That’s all.” 

“Oh. Okay, then,” Jon said, swallowing. “I think I can...try. To do that.” 

“Good. So...please don’t hide things from me anymore, okay? It won’t do either of us any good.” 

“You, too.” 

“Fine. And if you...if you really need a statement, Jon, like, it’s to a point where you’re hurting yourself, just...please say something? I’ve probably got a statement in me somewhere knocking around, and I honestly don’t mind if—” 

“No, Martin,” Jon said, eyes wide. 

“Yes, Jon. Yes, okay? It’s not like what you do kills people.” 

“Peter Lukas,” Jon muttered, sounding oddly torn up about it. 

“Well...maybe him. But that was...not the norm. He was such a goddamn recluse that probably just having you look at him sent him off.” 

“I don’t even know what happened there. I didn’t...I didn’t really mean to. I just wanted to know, and he wouldn’t tell me, and I didn’t understand how he was doing it, and so I pushed, and I – I didn’t think it would – _kill_ him. Maybe he’s still there. In the lonely.” 

Privately, Martin is pretty sure that Peter Lukas is gone for good, but if Jon isn’t ready to deal with that reality, Martin isn’t going to push him to confront it tonight. So he just says, “I don’t know. The point is, the problem with you taking statements was more an issue of...consent, than anything. As well as, you know, you making sure you were...making your own decisions. Well, I consent. And I won’t even have you seeing me in my dreams or whatever, since I’m pretty sure I’m still very much linked to the eye, and, well, it’s not as though I haven’t been having nightmares since Prentiss anyway, so if a giant eye or whatever wants to turn up and watch them, well, have at it.” 

“But I don’t want to see you,” Jon muttered, turning away. “I don’t...it’s awful, seeing them, not being able to do anything, and at the same time, feeling...it, its...disinterested interest. But – but I can’t complain, of course, it’s not – it's me doing it, isn’t it? It’s only my...the other people, who’ve got any right to...you shouldn’t be okay with that, Martin. I don’t want you making sacrifices.” 

“Oh, right. Coming from the person who went around shaking the hands of killer wax people, climbing into coffins, and willingly flinging himself into the lonely on what was for all he knew a suicide mission, sure, you’ve got every right to lecture me about self sacrifice.” 

“Isn’t that exactly what you were doing, working with Lukas in the first place?” 

“Yes.” 

“Then it sounds like we’re at a bit of an impasse here, Martin, when it comes to questionable acts of martyrdom.” 

“Maybe. But I did what I did because I – to save you. All of you. To keep people safe. And I know that’s part of why you do what you do, but honestly, Jon, don’t think it’s somehow escaped my notice that you also seem to think you deserve whatever punishment the universe throws at you. Except, oh wait – it's you who seems to go actively looking for the punishment.” 

“Oh, that’s not fair – you said yourself you had nothing to live for and that’s why you started working with Lukas – a good way to end up dead, indeed.” 

“How did you hear that?” 

“What?” 

“I just – you weren’t there, when I said that.” 

“It -- it must have been on a tape. Wasn’t I...I wasn’t there?” 

“Maybe it was an earlier tape, I just...well.” 

“It must have been.” 

“Right. Must have been. Anyway...instead of arguing over who’s been more self-destructively stupid lately – which it is you, by the way – we should probably rest.” 

“Right,” said Jon, and Martin found himself wondering if Jon slept anymore, before pushing the thought away, feeling guilty for some reason, as though it was somehow a betrayal to wonder about the ways in which Jon had been altered. “I’ll take the couch.” 

“No, Jon, you—” 

“Martin. Please.” 

Martin sighed, too tired to argue. “Fine,” he relented, standing. “But at least let me help set it up.” 

He brought a few pillows from the pile on the bed, as well as a sheet and a quilt he found folded in the closet, and fussed over the couch for a few minutes while Jon hovered nearby, trying not to smile. When he couldn’t come up with any more excuses to linger, he smoothed the quilt down one last time and turned to Jon. “All right. Well. Good night, I guess.” 

“Goodnight, Martin.” 

“I’ll be...” 

“Right in the other room.” 

“Right.” 

He did not shut the bedroom door. With it open, the little light plugged into the outlet in the hallway cast the faintest glow into the room, and he could hear Jon shifting around on the couch, a comforting reminder that he was not alone. He closed his eyes and sleep took him. 

Those weeks were good ones. Quiet ones. They took walks together into town and in the fields and stayed up very late because it seemed there was no end to their conversation, the conversation which was like a third newborn being held between them, a small fire which needed careful tending and gentle kindling. 

Sometimes Martin felt himself overcome by that subtle creeping fog which left him fuzzy and unreal, as though the world around him were made of dream matter, dust and cobwebs. Sometimes he couldn’t sleep. Sometimes his insomnia aligned with the times when Jon was dragged roughly from sleep by a particularly vivid nightmare, and they would sit up together listening to the radio or reading, drinking tea in companionable silence, or making bleary conversation. 

On one such night, Martin wakes and finds himself unable to go back to sleep. The clock blinks the time at him: two thirty in the morning. He finds that he doesn’t mind this, not so much. There were parts of the lonely that weren’t scary at all, that just filled him with a great calm. He might be able to persuade himself he’s the only person awake for miles, but that isn’t being alone—Jon is sleeping in the next room, the town at repose down the road. 

Or, Jon _was_ sleeping in the next room. Martin hears shifting, a muffled groan. He’s slipping out of bed before his mind catches up with his body, knowing only that Jon is awake and shouldn’t be alone. Three nights in a row now they’ve done this (the fatigue is starting to catch up with him). But this is the first time Martin stops in front of the couch to find Jon hunched over himself, hands over his eyes, shuddering. 

“Jon?” 

Jon just pressed his hands harder against his eyes and shook his head, sucked in a ragged breath. Martin sat on the couch beside him, leaving a few inches of space between them, and gently put his hand on Jon’s knee. Jon trembled and curled tighter in on himself, mumbled something Martin couldn’t make out. 

“I’m sorry, what did you say?” 

Jon repeated himself, and this time Martin made out only, “don’t deserve.” 

Martin doesn’t push. Doesn’t crowd, or fuss. He’s learning Jon, learning how he works all over again. He hums and rubs light, soothing circles on Jon’s skin with his thumb. “A bad one, then,” he murmured. “You’re awake. It’s over now, and it’s going to be all right.” 

Jon made a small, wounded sound that Martin thought might have been intended as a laugh, that bitter, sardonic laugh he used to hear a lot, but it doesn’t quite come off. “I’m going to put the kettle on,” he said, standing, only to be stopped when Jon’s hand shot out and held his wrist. “Or...I could stay here.” 

Jon let go of him, and with his hands dropping to twist nervously in his lap, Martin could see the frustrated misery on his face. “Sorry.” 

“You have nothing to be sorry for.” 

Jon laughed, bitter and hurt. “You can go back to sleep, Martin.” 

Martin stood, looked down at Jon, who wouldn’t meet his eyes. “Is that what you want?” When Jon wouldn’t reply, Martin sighed and went to prepare the tea, turning on the warm kitchen light as he did so. When he returned, he handed Jon his mug and sat down beside him once more on the couch. 

“Thank you,” Jon mumbled. “For...everything.” 

“And the tea.” 

“And the tea.” 

Martin watched Jon sip his tea, whole body curled like a comma and pressed against the armrest, hair mussed with sleep, dark circles under his eyes. He said, “You’re very silly, you know that?” 

Jon spluttered and looked at him, so disgruntled that Martin smiled. “I’m what?” 

“Silly. You’re silly.” 

“That--that is probably the last thing anyone would—” 

“It’s okay, Jon. Don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone, and ruin your professional mystique.” 

Jon shifted to turn towards him, gaze comically serious as he looked at Martin as though he were something worth studying. “I’m not—that.” 

“What, silly?” 

“Yes.” 

“Hm. Disagree. It’s part of your essential you-ness.” 

“And you’re-- _strange_.” 

“And you’re quite boring, really.” 

“And--and _confusing_.” 

“Do I confuse you, Jon? Really? Little old me?” 

Jon inched forward on the couch, as though getting closer would help him better see through to whatever he was looking for. Martin held very still, as though not to startle something wild and rare. “ _Yes_ ,” Jon whispered. “You always have.” 

“Oh. Always?” 

“With your, your cheer, looking glad to see me, your damn ‘Good morning, Jon,” and, and your damn _tea_.” 

“That’s all it takes to baffle you? Manners and tea?” 

“And your _kindness_ ,” Jon said, almost hissing out the word, eyes narrowed as he studied Martin, for once unselfconscious about his own uncanny gaze. 

“Even with an all-knowing eye popping neat little facts about the world’s mysteries into your brain, that’s what throws you? Kindness?” 

Jon withdrew, and Martin worried he’d pushed too far, by bringing up the eye, but he somehow knows that he needs to say this. Needs Jon to have whatever revelations he’s working himself up to, cogs almost visibly grinding away in that overworked head of his. His gaze remained on Martin, softening somewhat, eyes dark and liquid. “The eye is no good for things like that. No good for much at all, really. But especially not that.” 

“Things like what?” 

“Anything worthwhile. People. Feelings. It needs me for that, I think. Or so I’ve been told, I think.” 

“Then I guess I’m an enigma you’ll have to work out on your own. Tough luck, Jon.” 

Jon laughed, a little clumsily, but the sound plucked at Martin’s heart. “You’re...different.” 

“So are you.” 

“Yes, but I mean—” 

“I’m not talking about the eye. Not talking about rituals, or statements, or the archives. I know that’s part of it. I’m not denying that’s part of it. But I’m talking about something else.” 

“And what...might that be?” 

“I’m figuring that out. For one thing, though, you say thank you a lot more now.” 

Jon’s face twisted with discomfort. He glanced down, and then forced himself to look back at Martin and maintain twitchy eye-contact, something Martin knew wasn’t the easiest thing for him. Hadn’t ever been. “I--somehow,” he said, swallowing a lump in his throat, “I think that worrying over my humanity has made me realize...how I might have put more of it to better use, while I had some to spare.” 

“Yeah? Like how?” 

“Martin, I—I have not always been kind. To you.” 

“Oh, you have your own ways of showing it. I think risking your life to save me from an eternity in the lonely counts for something.” 

“But--before. I was...dismissive.” 

“Yes, sometimes you were. But I think I knew you had a heart in there, all along. When you said I could stay at the archives, after Prentiss—I think that’s when I knew I was right. No matter what Tim had to say about it.” 

Jon swallowed and Martin watched the scars on his throat stretch. “I...Martin. So you’re saying you...you do know that, that I...” 

Martin waited, gave Jon time to collect himself and wrestle with whatever thoughts and doubts and warring impulses were blocking up his speech. “I understand that it’s been...a while, and that you don’t...not anymore, and that’s...I understand, but I just need...I want you to know that I, also...before the lonely, I don’t know how long, knowing and realizing something are different things, but it’s been...a while, I think, that I’ve...felt. For you. Love.” Jon said the word like it hurt. 

For a moment they sat in silence. Martin knew he’d been leading Jon along towards something, but now, all his newfound confidence and security fled him and left him stupefied, staring at Jon, face heating, while Jon, looking pale and scared, squirmed and looked away. After a moment of silence, Jon began speaking in a nervous rush. “That is—I think that what I feel counts as—I know I’m not—I've never been—even with Georgie, it was different, but—that's the only other—I don’t know if I can even, given what I am, or if I know how, or—you don’t have to say anything, I didn’t mean to, to, to impose, or, or make you uncomfortable, god, I just—don't say anything, please, unless you want to, that wasn’t a—” 

“Jon.” 

“Yes,” Jon breathed, as though desperately grateful to have been shut up. 

“Sorry, did you just...did you just say that you?” Martin pointed at Jon, and then himself. “Me? You love me?” 

Jon nodded miserably, as though Martin were confirming that he’d contracted some kind of horrible disease. “I’m sorry I’m so bad at it.” 

“Jesus, Jon—you—do you have any idea...would you come here?” 

Martin held open his arms, and Jon hesitated. “You don’t have to do this, Martin. I know you’re stuck with me, given our situation, but you don’t have to...just because I said this, don’t think that I expect anything. You’re always giving.” 

“Jon. You’re being daft. Please come here.” 

“But I—” 

“I want to hold you.” 

“Oh.” 

And then Jon crawled across the couch and into Martin’s arms. Martin had to shift to make them both comfortably able to lie against the cushions, entwined, and he pressed his face to Jon’s hair and breathed. “Like I said,” he whispered. “You’re silly.” 

“Oh.” 

“I know you’re still scared,” Martin whispered. “I am, too. And I know you worry, I know you overthink things, it’s what you do, and I love it about you, but this...doesn’t need to be complicated. If you feel that way, and I feel that way, then...then this is easy, isn’t it? See?” 

“I see,” Jon whispered. He cleared his throat, and Martin felt it against his chest. “Could we, ah...could we do this, in the bed?” 

“Oh. God, yeah.” 

Martin stood and offered his hand, which Jon looked at as though it was some fragile, wonderful gift he was worried about leaving dirty fingerprints on if he touched it, but then he took Martin’s hand and let Martin lead him to the bedroom, where they both slid beneath the sheets and lay in the dark close together, facing one another and holding still. 

After a moment, Jon said, “This is much more comfortable than the couch. You mean to tell me if I’d just said something earlier, I could have been doing this, for days?” 

“Pretty much, yeah.” 

“Wow.” 

“Quite,” said Martin, unsure if Jon caught his little dig at an impression as Jon only shifted slightly closer, hands curled at his chest. He took them in his own, marveling at his freedom to do so. Did he really get to do this? And that? To brush Jon’s hair out of his eyes, tuck it behind his ear? Rub the pads of his thumbs over Jon’s palms, carefully touching each, one smooth and one scarred? Fall asleep here, like this? After all this time, all the danger and the sacrifices, the loss, the longing, all of it? “Does it...hurt?” 

“Does what hurt?” 

“The scar,” Martin said, stilling his fingers just in case. 

“Which...one? I have something of a collection going on.” 

“I was thinking of the one on your hand, but...do any of them? I just don’t want to accidentally hurt you.” 

“Oh,” Jon said, voice full of such wonder, brimming over with something Martin can’t name or place but which about breaks his heart anyway. He wants to cry, suddenly. Wants to shake the bars of the world and scream himself voiceless at all its sharp edges and demand an explanation or at least an apology for how carelessly it handles and breaks its people. He does none of these things. They wouldn’t help. The night is for quiet and calm and healing. 

Jon shifts on the bed, careful to keep his hands in Martin’s. “It’s...it’s not so bad. What about you, is there anything I should...know?” 

“No. I mean, nothing comes to mind. You know I’m still...still working through some things, the lonely, especially, but...I was asking you.” 

“It’s nothing.” 

“What’s nothing?” 

“You can’t hurt me. I mean, it’s already done, nothing you do will hurt it anymore.” 

“Jon.” 

Jon’s voice is careful and brittle when he replies. “There are...a lot, now. Some I don’t think you...it’s just a lot. I’m not complaining. I mean, it means I lived, doesn’t it? But it isn’t...exactly a comfort. Isn’t comfortable. But. It’s fine.” 

At a loss for anything to say, Martin just kisses the back of the hand Jude Perry had branded with her handshake, pressed Jon’s curled knuckles to his mouth. Jon’s breath came sharp and then he held it, unbreathing for a long moment. “I would like to make you comfortable,” Martin said. “If I can.” 

Jon turned his face away, pressing it into the pillow. “Too much,” he mumbled. 

“Oh, I’m sorry, Jon,” Martin said, making to move away, but Jon held his hands and shook his head, and Martin liked to think he had learned when it was good to push and when it was time to relent, so he let himself drift off to sleep. 

They shared the bed from then on. Certain conversations were made for that place—in the dark, side by side, on the edge of sleep, on the edge of the world. They could say things they couldn’t say elsewhere, true things, fragile things. Gradually the lonely’s influence faded and Martin’s mind cleared, although he didn’t think it would ever leave him completely. He thought it had probably been there all along, at least a bit. He began sleeping through the night. 

Jon did not. Sometimes Martin would be woken by him getting out of bed, or shifting, although he knew Jon did his best to be stealthy and not wake him. And then they would sit up together or hold each other until sleep overtook them again. 

Once he woke to find light filtering past the closed bathroom door, the sound of the shower turning on. “Jon?” he mumbled, rising sluggishly from the bed. He knocked on the door. He did his best not to crowd Jon, but it was four in the morning, and Jon was a creature of habit, so this seemed like cause for alarm. 

“What?” Jon said, and even through the door and with the shower running, Martin could hear how thick and choked his voice was. “Go back to sleep, Martin, I’m fine.” 

“Are you?” 

When Jon didn’t reply, Martin hesitantly put his hand on the doorknob. “Jon, I’m worried. Please. Maybe I can help.” 

To Martin’s shock, Jon nudged the door open. He didn’t look at Martin, and moved immediately back into the bathroom, hunched into himself and shivering, still clothed but pulling his oversized t-shirt (Martin’s t-shirt) down over one shoulder, twisting to look in the mirror. 

“What are you doing?” Martin said, careful to keep all judgement or accusation out of his tone. 

“Corruption,” Jon said, fingers ghosting over his own skin, as though he were afraid to touch or press. “I swear I can – feel it, like they’re still – in me. Inside. Underneath.” 

Martin’s stomach flipflopped. He was no stranger to dreams about Jane Prentiss and her burrowing worms, but he could imagine how much worse it would be to have the tactile memory of how it felt to have them digging into his flesh to go with the mental images. And the marks as a constant reminder to show for it. Jon was tugging the shirt down further, twisted away from Martin as though that would keep him from seeing somehow, but in the mirror Martin could see his fingers scanning across his skin, skirting shakily around worm scars, and with a pang he realized how extensive they were. He’d seen the ones that were visible, of course, and had known, logically, that there must be more, but he hadn’t...it wasn’t something he’d let himself think about before. 

“I need to get clean,” Jon said, his voice tight and barely controlled. “Go back to bed. I’m sorry. I just need to – I feel – I don’t feel good.” 

Martin spoke before thinking. “I could come with you.” 

“What?” 

He swallowed a lump in his throat. He was afraid to push Jon’s boundaries, hadn’t yet figured out where they lay exactly, but his desire to help and care for Jon won out. It always had. “In the shower.” 

“You--what.” 

“You can say no. I just—just let me _take care_ of you, Jon. If you don’t want that, fine, but—but please don’t say no just because you feel guilty, or like you don’t deserve this, because I am so sick of us dancing around this and missing out because, because we’re scared, of what? Of letting someone take care of you? Just—please, Jon. It kills me to see you...please.” 

Jon froze, let the shirt drop back. “Just...just a shower?” 

“Yes,” Martin said, although his heart was pounding. It was just a shower, and yet, he well knew the level of vulnerability he was opening them both up to. What he was asking for. He could hardly believe it when Jon nodded, stiffly. 

“If you’re sure,” Jon said, his voice oddly flat in his attempt to keep it from breaking. “You can...turn around, now, then.” 

“Jon, we’re getting into the shower, I’m going to see...” 

“Fine,” Jon snapped. 

“We don’t have to—” 

But Jon was already yanking the shirt over his head and kicking his boxers off, and Martin did turn around, not quite second guessing this but coming close. He waited until he heard Jon step into the shower and yank the curtain shut behind him before taking off his own clothes. 

“Okay. I’m going to—” 

“Yes,” said Jon. 

“You’re sure this is okay?” 

“...If you are.” 

“Jon...” 

Jon gave a frustrated, needy whine. “If you don’t come in, could you—at least stay there and talk to me?” 

“So you do want me here?” 

“Martin.” 

“I’m coming in now,” Martin said, his voice going high and funny for a moment, because this is absurd, this is ridiculous. He stepped carefully into the shower, averting his gaze for a moment to stare at the wet yellow tiles. 

It’s cramped. He is suddenly, awkwardly aware of the amount of space he takes up. He had thought he might have been over this by now. For the most part, he is. But he can’t help the momentary hyper awareness. Then he let himself look at Jon, who was stood directly under the spray, hair pasted down over his face, arms wrapped around himself, staring right back at him. Not without apprehension, but with overwhelming...well, Martin can only really think to call it desire. Not lust, but want. Nerves, yes, but more powerfully, trust. As though Martin could do anything in this moment, and Jon would accept it as his due. 

He knows he must be careful. 

“What...now,” Jon said. 

“What do you want?” 

“I don’t know.” 

“I could...wash your hair. If that would feel good. If not, then...” 

“That sounds like it could be nice. If you wanted. To do that. To me.” 

“Scoot over here then,” Martin said, and they shuffle clumsily to change positions so that he can wash Jon’s hair without the water splashing onto it. He thinks, distantly, that drawing a bath would really have been the easier, smarter thing to do, but it’s too late, and it doesn’t matter. He squirts a too-generous amount of the shampoo he’d bought in town into his hands and says, “I’m going to start now,” just to give Jon a warning. Jon is tense, but nods, and Martin begins working the shampoo into his hair, gentle at first, and then, when Jon gives no sign of discomfort, but on the contrary makes a tiny, needy sound and leans back, he relaxes and knows that this is okay, this is going to be okay, and begins to massage Jon’s scalp. He watches Jon’s shoulders hitch as he takes a sharp breath. 

“I’m not hurting you, am I?” 

“No. No. I just—haven't had...” 

“You’re okay.” 

“Martin,” Jon says, his voice cracking. “It’s just—for years—everything that’s touched has—hurt.” 

Martin wants to do something desperate, then. He settles for continuing to massage Jon’s scalp, and as the minutes wear on, Jon goes gradually boneless under his fingers, and the helpless passivity that overtakes him would be alarming except that Martin knows he needs this, needs to be able to be helpless and taken care of for a moment, and most importantly, he knows that Jon is in capable hands. He directs him under the stream of water and Jon goes willingly, lets Martin rinse his hair and then go about repeating the ritual with the conditioner. When Jon feels his fingers slowing down, he gropes for the soap, fumbling with the cap. 

“I’ll do this part,” he mutters. 

Martin averts his gaze as much as he can. Not that it does much good. Jon’s body is...it takes the breath out of him like a punch to the gut. He’s beautiful. He holds himself like he’s in pain and if he doesn’t keep tense, he’ll fall apart. He is scarred all over, some of them familiar, some of them a mystery, and the chronicle of harm he has endured is written across every part of him, unmistakable and obvious. Jon catches him staring and Martin looks away. 

“Sorry,” Jon muttered. 

“Sorry?” 

“For,” Jon said, gesturing vaguely at his corner of the shower. “I’m not. I know it’s not nice to see. To look at. Not that I was ever—but now it’s—I know.” 

“It’s always nice to see you.” 

Jon laughs shakily. 

“I didn’t know you were...self-conscious.” 

Jon tenses impossibly further. “I’m not. I just know it’s--ugly. And probably reminds you of things you’d rather forget.” 

“Are you talking about your scars?” 

“What else?” 

“Nothing. Just—I'm sorry. I’m sorry, is all. That so much has hurt.” 

“Well. I probably deserved a lot of it.” 

“That isn’t true.” 

“You always see the best in people.” 

“I see _you_.” 

Jon shot him a dry, exasperated look tempered by hopeless fondness and made ridiculous by his wet hair dripping into his face, and Martin can’t help the smile that spreads across his face. “You’re a sap,” Jon muttered, ducking his head. 

“And you love it.” 

“Hm.” 

“Jon. I know it’s not—the same, at all, but...I do know a little of what it’s like. Being uncomfortable in your skin.” 

Jon blinked, as though confused. “Why?” 

“Jon, come on.” 

“But you’re--let me do yours now,” Jon said, reaching for the shampoo, and Martin understands what this means, in Jon’s clumsy language cobbled together with half-starts and gestures. Reciprocity. 

“I think you might need a stepstool.” 

Jon just huffs in response, but he winces when he reaches up for Martin’s hair, and Martin gently catches his wrist. “Jon, it’s all right. I already showered today? I’d honestly rather get warm and back in bed, if you’re...if you’re ready.” 

“You don’t always have to be the one doing things for me.” 

“I’m not.” 

“Another time?” 

“Yes. Another time.” 

All right then,” Jon mutters, looking down and hugging himself. “Then--okay. The water’s getting cold anyway.” 

They towel dry and get back in bed, snuggle under the covers and look at each other. Martin is content to do so until they fall asleep, when Jon clears his throat and whispers, “Did you notice, um...the ribs?” 

“The what?” 

“I just—I guess I wanted it all sort of—on the table.” 

“What...ribs?” 

“Mine. Two of them, actually.” 

“Jon...” 

“I don’t know why I wanted you to know.” 

“Know _what_?” 

“I still have ten, so it’s not—I'm fine.” 

Martin’s hand went to Jon’s side, lightly holding him, feeling his sides expand and contract with his breath. He can’t...necessarily tell, he doesn’t think, but then, he’s no anatomist, and he’s afraid to...press. In case something gives. “Jon, _how_?” 

“Jared Hopworth,” Jon said, doing a squished version of the hand-waving gesture he uses to be dismissive when he’s uncomfortable. “It’s nothing. I just—the idea was that I needed an anchor, to find my way out of the buried, and I thought—part of my own body would probably do the trick. So. One for an anchor, and one for...payment.” 

“ _What_?” 

"Maybe I shouldn’t have brought this up.” 

“No, you definitely should—should tell me stuff like this, Jon, I just—how? Payment for what?” 

“He just sort of...reached in.” 

“God, Jon...” 

“I wouldn’t say it was comfortable, but—but it was fine.” 

“It was _fine_?” 

“I’m okay now. I could live functionally with even _less_ ribs, in fact. I checked. Online.” 

“Well, don’t, please? Why a rib for an anchor, why not, not—I don’t know, something you really liked, or used a lot, like—just the archives, or, or anything.” 

“It needed to be...visceral. I don’t know, Martin. I don’t know. It probably didn’t need to be a rib, I just—I mean, I was trying to use one of my fingers, but the damn things kept growing back before I could cut them all the way through, and Daisy was in there, and I just—” 

“Jon,” Martin groaned, rolling over and putting his hands over his eyes. “What am I going to do with you.” 

“I’m sorry.” 

“Just--why two? What was the other for?” 

“Ah. Yes. That one was in exchange for his...statement.” 

Martin rolled back over to stare at Jon. “Say you’re joking.” 

Jon shrugged helplessly. “I really...wanted that statement. And. It didn’t seem to matter much. What’s a rib when you’re not...human. Anymore.” 

“Jon, I...I guess I’m glad you’re telling me things, but...please. Please try not to think that way, anymore. I know it isn’t easy, just...you can’t do that.” 

“I know,” Jon whispered. “You know, I...I think every entity has had a go at me, by now, so—so maybe that means they’re done with me,” he said, with a soft laugh half hurt and half hopeful. “They’ve left their marks, maybe they’ll let us be.” 

“They better,” Martin said, pressing a kiss to the back of Jon’s knuckles. “I’ll fight ‘em.” 

“You’ll fight them? All fourteen—potentially fifteen—dark powers beyond our comprehension bent upon harvesting our pure mortal terror?” 

“M-hm.” 

Jon sighed and wrapped his arm around Martin. “What did I ever do to deserve such a knight in shining armor?” 

“Hm. Dunno. Might have been your love of small talk.” 

When Jon laughed, his breath tickled Martin’s throat, and he held him closer. Martin closed his eyes. Jon sighed and shuffled away, as he usually did when he was ready to fall asleep. “I hope that’s what it means,” he murmured. “That they’re done, and not...I don’t know about this feeling I have that it might be...something else.” 

“You worry too much,” Martin mumbled, already slipping under into sleep. “Gonna start getting gray hair if you don’t cut it out.” 

“Shut up,” Jon muttered half-heartedly, and Martin can hear the smile in his voice, and all is well in the world as he drifts into sleep. 

When Martin receives the box of statements from Basira, he is partially filled with trepidation, but mostly relieved. Jon’s gaze had been getting...hungry. There is no better word for it. He’d kept it under control, largely maintained his composure, but Martin had been able to tell it was wearing him down, and so was glad to have such a gift to bring inside for Jon, whose poise slipped for a moment when he took hold of the box, eyes going unblinking and intent as he made to tear the box open. He forced himself to slow, look up at Martin, thank him and make polite conversation about the cows. 

Martin glances back at him, hesitating in the doorway. Jon is seated on the floor still, box opened, papers and tapes spread across his lap and the surrounding tile, unable to wait to find somewhere more comfortable to read. There is a recorder in his hand, the one he had brought, the one Martin had done his best to forget about. It had not turned on at all during their stay at the safehouse, and he hadn’t seen Jon use it once. But not it is in Jon’s hand as though it had never left, as though that is where it belongs, sure as if it is an extension of his body, as though it is operating his fingers rather than Jon operating it. He watches Jon scan the statements with dark eyes, the pupils dilating, eating up his irises. He watches Jon’s hand still over one statement in particular, the little nod of Jon’s head as he recognizes it as the one for reasons Martin will never understand. Jon picks the statement up and clears his throat, and Martin closes the door quietly behind him, pushing aside his unease. 

This is Jon. This is a part of Jon that cannot be separated from the rest. Martin knows this. Accepts this. Is determined not to ever let this make Jon thinks that Martin sees him as anything other than as he is. And he is. And Martin would not change him, even if the change might make life easier for Jon, because it is not his place to. 

He walks away from the house, letting the cloudless sunny sky warm his face and settle his unease. This is a good thing, he tells himself, firm and leaving no room for doubt. This is good for Jon. Jon needs this. He’s only uneasy because it feels like having the institute back in their lives, but that’s just superstition or anxiety talking, it isn’t true. They’re only statements, and old ones at that. He walks along, looking at the rolling green hills, the distant purple mountains, the powder blue sky. Jon will feel better than he has in days, when Martin returns. He will be warm and pliant and fuzzy-headed with the post-statement drowsiness, and will probably let Martin tuck him into the bed for a nap. Maybe he will not even dream, and wouldn’t that be nice? This is a good thing. 

_I never knew I could feel like this_ , Jon had whispered, in the dead of night, to no one but Martin. With awe and wonder and yes, a little terror. Because all awe is terror in part, and all terror awe. Martin had felt it too. The enormity and the smallness, too. The myriad contradictions that made up Jon, made up himself, made their connection. Enduring and fragile, wounded and healing, improbable and inevitable. 

That they have both somehow, miraculously, remained capable of gentleness, despite it all, must mean something. Martin is suddenly so, so proud of them both, and so in love, and so impossibly terrifyingly happy that he finds himself smiling as he walks along. He smiles at the rolling green hills and the distant purple mountains while above him the powder blue sky begins to darken to the color of a new bruise. He thinks that he would like to feed Jon ice cream out of a carton. He thinks he might even be well enough now for poetry. Martin looks up. 

And the whole world goes wrong. 

Jon is slumped on the ground and Martin stops frozen in the doorway, his whole being empty but for the howling tear of wind and the static hiss of tape recorders. His whole being says, _NO_. 

And then he stumbles forward, collapses to his knees, and sees that Jon is breathing, shallow and fast, and that his eyes are darting beneath their lids, a high feverish flush to his cheeks. His skin is hot when Martin lifts him, pulls Jon’s back to his chest and supports his head when it lolls forward on his neck. He is saying Jon’s name but his own voice is a stranger speaking gibberish. Jon had lain on a bed of scattered papers, and Martin sees the statement he must have been reading still clenched in his hand, crumpled on both sides as though he had been squeezing it so hard while reading as to almost tear it in two. There is a thin line of blood under his nose, already dried. Martin does not want to know what these things mean. He does not want to know. 

Jon groans and his eyes open and his eyes open and his eyes oh god his eyes— 

( _And he was all eyes_ , said the woman with the haunted, hunted look leaning across Martin’s desk, _and he was_ all _eyes_.) 

Is this what she meant? Is this what she saw? 

Martin helps Jon to his feet when Jon asks and he blurts out, “Don’t go out there, it’s--it’s bad, Jon, it’s real bad,” when Jon goes for the door. Why does he bother? Of course Jon is going to look out there. Martin even left the door open in his haste, swinging on its hinges and creaking. 

“I’m scared, Jon.” 

“The whole world is scared, Martin. Because of me,” Jon says, and his face is wide open, cracked, shattered. It isn’t right. It isn’t right. It’s him but it isn’t right. Martin wants to ask what he means but he doesn’t want to hear the answer. He wants to squeeze his eyes shut very tightly and then open them again and be in bed with the clock reading three in the morning and Jon drooling on the pillow beside him, eyes closed, snuffling quietly in sleep. 

Jon stands in the doorway and Martin goes to stand beside him, and Jon is standing rigid as though fighting some cosmic force that has him in its grip, and then he looks up, and his face is open, wide open, and his eyes are all open, and the whole world is pouring into them and pierced by them, and Jon’s voice is a tortured mockery of itself, and he is in rapture, crucified by the gaze that meets his own. 

“Look at the sky, Martin. It’s looking back,” Jon says, all awe and terror and wonder and joy and devastation, and it wrenches something in Martin’s chest, twists it into knots and crushes it. 

When Jon laughs, it almost sounds like laughter should. 


End file.
